Lisa's Laws: Combating the 'clothing makes the girl' feeling

I have to start by saying that my daughter Bella is beautiful. Really gorgeous. And she always has been. She was a baby who looked as though she had been swiped from a Botticelli painting.

Lisa Ramirez

I have to start by saying that my daughter Bella is beautiful. Really gorgeous. And she always has been. She was a baby who looked as though she had been swiped from a Botticelli painting.

One time in Mexico, when she was about 4, we nearly missed our bus when she attracted the attention of a small crowd of grandmotherly ladies who detained us to ooh and ah over her prettiness, admire her braided hair, and to pat her gently on the head.

So see, it's not just me saying this.

Now Bella's 11. She doesn't let me braid her hair anymore, and she finds style inspiration less in Bottecelli and more in Andy Warhol (mostly on account of all those Marilyns), but even when she was a toddler she loved getting dressed up. That hasn't changed.

Each Christmastime she gets a fancy new dress, one to wear to parties or to see Santa. Shopping for it has become a favorite tradition, and we always make a special trip dedicated just to finding her the perfect most-Christmasy dress in all the mall. She tries on dozens, twirling in the dressing room in gowns of glittering reds and sparkling golds with big bows at the waist and rustling pinafores beneath yards of satin and lace and washable silk.

This year, her dress will get some stage time during her middle school's holiday concert. There's a dress code for chorus members, and for girls it's "dresses, dress shirt and skirt (minimum knee length) or pants (no jeans)," which, to Bella, actually means "splendid and spectacular dress that screams Christmas! Hanukkah! New Year's! (at minimum sparkles, ideally lots of sequins and/or gemstones) and glitter nail polish."

So a week ago Friday, after school, we went to the mall, heading first to the girls' departments in a couple of the big stores where she pointed out dresses until our arms were full of organza and velvet and faux fur trim. One after the other, she tried them on. And with each, one after the other after the other, her spirit fell a little bit more. Nothing fit right — too tight or too short or pinching at the zipper. She didn't like the way her upper arms looked in one. They were itchy, or scratchy. Some were too juvenile, others too sophisticated. And then she didn't want to shop for dresses anymore.

"Nothing will make me look good," she said.

And that made me mad. Not at Bella, Bella was breaking my heart. But I guess I just figured that it wouldn't come this soon, before she's even in her teens, the belief that if a garment plucked off a rack doesn't look great on you it must be your fault. It's crazy. They were just dresses.

But there she was — beautiful and healthy and smart and feeling awkward and clumsy and blaming herself. I know that feeling. Every woman does.

And I tried to tell her that, that some dress — or bathing suit or pair of jeans — in a fitting room doesn't get to decide who you are and how you feel about yourself. The world is full of dresses, and sometimes you have to try on a whole lot of them to find one that deserves you.

I made her try one more store, one with plenty of glitz in its windows. We gathered up more dresses and she tried them on. Too big. Too short. Too tight. Makes me look chubby. And then there was one, finally, that made her smile.

It is, the chorus director may notice, exceedingly sparkly, the top a sea of blue, green and turquoise sequins with a simple black chiffon skirt.